"Who is he, anyhow? Where does he hail from, and what is he doing here?"

The speaker leaned over the little bar in the hotel at Maritzburg, and looked first at the landlord who stood behind it and then at half a dozen roughly dressed companions who were congregated in front of it.

These men were cattle-dealers and speculators. They made it a business to furnish oxen, wagons, supplies, and servants to hunters and travellers who were bound up the country.

They claimed a monopoly in this line, and the stranger who ignored them and exercised the right to purchase his outfit where he could do the best was sure to suffer at their hands in one way or another.

"He is from America," answered two or three of the men at once; and the tone in which the words were spoken betrayed both the pity and contempt they felt for one who was willing to acknowledge that he came from so benighted a region.

"Oh, he's a Yankee, is he?" exclaimed the first speaker. "I thought he didn't look and act like an Englishman. Isn't there a chance to make a few pounds out of him? He doesn't know the ropes, of course."

"If he doesn't know them all he knows a good many of them," replied the landlord. "He has had nothing to do with anybody about the hotel since he has been here, and has acted as independent as you please."

"What is his business?"

"That is the funny part of the story. I have heard, in a roundabout way—he has never said a word to me about himself or his affairs—that he is going into the interior on a sporting expedition."

"He is!" exclaimed the first speaker. "Why, he's nothing but a boy!"

"And a foolish one at that," chimed in another of the cattle-dealers. "I don't believe he ever fired a gun in his life."

"They say he has," replied the landlord. "The story goes that he has spent a winter alone in the Rocky Mountains—wherever they may be—and that he has killed bears and deer no end."

"I don't believe a word of it. Americans don't have money to spend in hunting, as our gentlemen sportsmen do."

"He's got plenty of it, and has paid his bills regular. I'll say that much for him," observed the landlord. "I am told that he is backed up by some college in America, and that he is employed to stock a museum there."

"Well, we don't want him here," said one of the cattle-dealers decidedly. "Nobody but our own countrymen have the right to hunt in Africa."

"I don't see how you are going to stop him."

"Oh, there are plenty of ways! We have stopped more than one hunter from going over the town hill, and we can stop this one."

"I wouldn't fool with him if I were you," said the landlord. "Judging by the way he acts, he has brought letters to somebody here in Maritzburg—although where he got them I don't know—and if he has you had better let him alone, or you'll get into trouble."

"Be careful about what you do," said one of the men who had not spoken before, and who answered to the name of Barlow. "He's smart, and better posted than any stranger I ever saw. I met him in Durban. He bought an outfit of me—oxen, wagon, and everything—all fair and square, and then backed out."

We have introduced this man by name, because he bears a somewhat important part in the history of Oscar's life in Africa. When we come to speak of him again we shall see that he did not confine himself strictly to the truth when he said that the boy had broken faith with him.

"I'd pay him for that if I were in your place," said the landlord.

He was in league with these cattle-dealers, who were swindlers without exception, and received a share in the profits of the business he was able to throw into their hands.

"Don't you worry," replied Barlow. "He hasn't left the colony yet."

"If I ran this hotel I would know something about him before he went away," said one of the men. "It may be that he is a convict, and that the story he tells about his doings in America is false."

"I have often thought of speaking to him about his object in coming here, and as he is going away to-day, perhaps I had better do it now," said the landlord.

Encouraged by the approving winks and nods of his friends, all of whom were burning with a desire to learn something authentic regarding the silent stranger, the landlord opened the door of the bar and walked through it toward the opposite side of the dingy little parlor, where the subject of these uncomplimentary remarks was standing in front of one of the windows, watching what was going on in the stable-yard.

Although one of the cattle-dealers had declared that he was nothing but a boy, he was large enough to be called a man. He was tall and broad-shouldered, and his tight-fitting jacket and trousers of moleskin, with top-boots, revealed the outlines of a figure that was built for strength and activity.

On his head he wore a light leathern helmet, with a peak before and behind. His dress, from head to foot, had been selected with due regard for the climate and rough life he expected to lead in the wilds of Africa. A casual observer would not only have discovered a good-natured face, but a bold and resolute one, and you could not look at it without telling yourself that its owner was a boy who would dare anything. It was our old friend Oscar Preston.

Since he left his native land, three months ago, he had learned to love it and the people in it as he had never loved them before; and perhaps, when we come to describe some of the incidents that happened during his long journey, we shall see why it was so.

He looked around when the landlord came up and laid his hand familiarly on his shoulder, but did not say anything.

"Mr. Preston," said the landlord, "as you are about to leave my house, I should like to ask you a few questions, if you have no objections."

"Mr. Dibbits," replied Oscar, "how much do I owe you?"

"It isn't that, sir; I assure you it isn't that. You have paid your bills like a gentleman. But when a guest comes and goes in such a mysterious way——"

"There is nothing mysterious about me or my movements," interrupted Oscar. "You won't let a fellow mind his own business even if he wants to, will you? You must have heard—for it is all over town, and in everybody's mouth—that I came here to procure specimens of natural history for a museum in America. That much I am at liberty to tell anybody; but my private affairs I decline to talk about. If you want to learn anything more concerning me go to Mr. Donahue, Mr. Morgan, or Mr. McElroy; and, if you are intimate with them, perhaps they will satisfy your curiosity."

The landlord began to open his eyes when he heard this. Mr. Donahue was the magistrate, Mr. Morgan was the editor of the leading political paper in Durban, and Mr. McElroy was the delegate for the colony.

An Englishman has the greatest respect for big names, and a guest who could speak of these gentlemen as Oscar did was one that could not be treated with too much familiarity.

"I meant no offence, Mr. Preston," the landlord hastened to say; "but you will acknowledge——"

"Yes, I will have to acknowledge it, for everybody tells me so," replied Oscar. "Folks look sideways at me, and say, 'Are you not rather young for such business, Mr. Preston?' When I first met Mr. Donahue, and told him where I had been, and what I had done in the way of hunting in my own country, he looked the very picture of astonishment, and said my story was almost incredible. Perhaps he wouldn't have believed a word of it if I hadn't brought the proofs with me. I suppose I am young in years for such work; but what I have done, and still hope to do, will bear no comparison with what another American boy has done—and he didn't brag about it, either. He left his home in New England when he was only seventeen years old, went to the La Plata River, in South America, and walked from there to Valparaiso—a distance of more than a thousand miles—in the face of all sorts of dangers and difficulties. I suppose you never heard of that before?"

No; Mr. Dibbits couldn't say he had.

"Of course you never heard of it, for he wasn't an English boy. If he had been the whole world would have heard of it. One of your own authors says of the book he wrote about that walk, as near as I can recall the words, 'Sir Francis Head went over this same ground on horseback, and gave us a good account of it; but the quiet walk of this American boy is worth infinitely more than the rough rides of the British baronet.' What do you think of that, Mr. Dibbits?"

"It's very extraordinary—very!" replied the landlord.

"I should say it was; but it is true, and it shows that American boys have some get-up about them, doesn't it?"

"It certainly does. I know that you will go through with your undertaking as he did with his, for I can see by your face that you are a brave lad."

"If you were an Irishman I should say that was blarney," thought Oscar. "You've got an axe to grind."

"You'll be needing cattle and salted horses," continued Mr. Dibbits, "and if I could be of any assistance now——"

"I thought there was something of that sort in the wind," said Oscar to himself; then aloud he answered, "I have everything I need, thank you; and even if I hadn't I should not think of dealing with any of those men who are now standing at your bar. I know one of them; I met him in Durban, and I know he is angry at me because I did not buy my outfit and hire my men of him. I know, too, that he and his fellows have a way of breaking up the hunting expeditions of men they do not like; but I didn't come here to be broken up, and I won't be, either. If anybody interferes with me—— Mr. Dibbits, just look at that!"

While Oscar was speaking he chanced to turn his eyes toward the stable-yard and saw a sight that astonished and enraged him.